You're My Hero Too
by CheeseCakeKitty15
Summary: For the longest time, America has always desperately wanted to tell England something, but has never found the courage within him to do so. Perhaps reminiscing on the past may help put the words back into his mouth, and this may be the only chance to do so. Rated T because i'm paranoid. ONESHOT


**Hey Guys and Gals, CheeseCakeKitty15 here back yet again with a new story instead of writing new chapters for my other stories, yay! Anyways, I have some news to report: they caught me, they finally caught me… The Hetalians have captured me and I am now one of them now, there is no turning back. But that's beside the point! This is just a little idea I came up with just now and I hope you enjoy it!**

 **Disclaimer: I (unfortunately) do not own Hetalia. If I did, I would personally pay to get Italy some dancing lessons.**

 **You could say that this is USUK, but I'm just writing it as fluff. You may interpret it as you please!**

 **Without further ado, let's get on with the story!**

" _God, this meeting is such a drag…"_ A certain American thought hazily, carefully adjusting his grey-rimmed glasses on his face and yawning. As usual, the place was an absolute tip. His deep blue eyes briefly scanned the G8 meeting room where nothing particularly interesting was taking place, just the usual same old ruckus that never seemed to change no matter where in the world they happened to be. China was carefully braiding his silky chestnut hair that was lazily slung over his shoulder, France was constantly posing with a scarlet rose to his lips for no-one in particular, whilst unknowingly giving off strong _Ouran_ vibes which somehow kept Japan mildly interested as he watched with soulless eyes at the 'performance' the European nation was pulling off. Germany sat at the head of the table sighing in a very despairing manner with his head in his hands, yet also keeping a watchful eye of Italy, who was passing the time by doodling pictures of cats and renaissance figures in his little notebook. And throughout it all, Russia just sat there smiling childishly, letting out the occasional laugh now and then at the comedic scene that was unfolding in front of him.

After about 10 or 15 minutes, the meeting was slowly beginning to pick up steam again as Germany begun to speak about the world's economy as of recently, throwing in just enough information to keep everybody intrigued. All the nations were watching intently and scribbling down facts and figures in their colourful notebooks which they would have to present to their bosses later. America briefly looked up from his notes to collect his thoughts for a moment when something caught his eye. Across the table from him, somebody who he held near and dear to his heart sat, crafting beautiful swirls of black across his page in his intricate cursive handwriting. His captivating green eyes were like shimmering emeralds and, to America, every single thing about this man was perfect. England was his hero, his brother, the first person who cared for him and showered him in undeniable love from the second he had found him wandering the fields. He tried his very best to make him happy, and seeing him smile was the highlight of the Englishman's day; he tried his best with his cooking, even though it wasn't great, but everything he willingly sacrificed he did it for America.

Only for him to then throw it all away back in his face, leaving him bloody and tearstained on the battlefield, with scars that never seem to heal. He'll never forget the look on his former-caretaker's face that day: shocked, angry, ashamed and heartbroken, all at the same time. England flat out _couldn't_ bring himself to shoot him, even when they were enemies. He loved him that much.

And he just walked away, celebrating his freedom with his soldiers. Drinking alcohol and singing until they passed out, laughing and eagerly chatting to one another. America should have been happy. He should have been overjoyed, ecstatic even. He had gotten what he wanted. Freedom, and nothing but that. There was no one who could tell him what to do, to boss him around. America _should_ have been happy.

It didn't feel much like freedom though. Instead, it felt like he was slowly becoming trapped in his own worry and self-doubt, in his own fear and hidden suffering. Nobody could know that though. He simply wouldn't let them. His people were happy, he was supposedly happy, and that's all he could ever wish for, right? He knew that England would be upset upon surrendering, but he never expected daily letters from France explaining how he would cry himself to sleep every night, how he would constantly tell himself he wasn't good enough and how he hated himself; how he would make himself bleed because he believed he deserved it, how he was practically inconsolable and would only speak in sobs and whimpers.

It took years and years before America was happy with his freedom, and decades and decades before England first spoke again, and even then, it was just one word sentences. America knew that he had utterly destroyed the man, both physically and mentally, but thought he would get over it pretty quickly. However, that was not the case.

It took centuries before England spoke to America again, and as of now, their relationship seemed to be stable again, at the very least. Despite this, he knew of the Brits frequent mental breakdowns and panic attacks that nobody, not even himself, could save him from. The tension between them was awful, but there was nothing either of them could do about it. They both believed that it was their fault.

The sound of England's heart-wrenching cries would still haunt America forever, and he often would wake up in the middle of the night crying his eyes out from the guilt and sorrow that lies within him. From _knowing_ that it was all his fault. He usually wouldn't be able to get back to sleep.

Even after all this time, there is something that the American boy desperately wanted to tell him, but could never find the right moment. He was also worried, worried that England would think that he is just humouring him or that it's just a joke, without knowing that the feelings were as clear as the summer nights' sky.

"America? America? You in there, or have you completely lost the bloody plot?"

Snapping out of his melancholy daydream, he saw that the meeting room was bare, and upon looking up, saw that England himself was standing next to him gently shaking his shoulder.

"Oh, hey England." America greeted, slightly dazed for no apparent reason, "Where's everyone gone? I thought we had a meeting."

"Well, we _did_ have a meeting…" The British man responded, letting out a heavy, drawn out sigh, "But it's over now. You started dozing about three quarters of the way through and I decided to leave you be. Nothing that was said concerned you anyway, so it wouldn't have mattered. Besides, I couldn't just leave you here alone trapped in your little fantasy world; you're staying at my place for a couple of days, remember?"

"Oh yeah…" the bespectacled boy said absent-mindedly, standing up and gathering his paperwork before slinging his bag over his shoulder and turning to face the Brit.

"I suppose we should start heading off." England muttered to himself.

He turned on a heel and began slowly making his way towards the door, humming a sweet little tune to himself as he walked. About to turn the handle, he realised that America wasn't following him, and instead had stayed where he was by the table, his head hung, face riddled with shame. They both dropped their bags simultaneously and made steady eye contact for a few moments, England not understanding what his friend was up to. He wasn't sure what to make of this so he asked,

"America? Are you alright? Is something the matter?"

The tanned blond still had his head hung, and his fists were angrily clenched by his sides. He heard the footsteps of the older man as he wandered towards him and felt large tears prick in his eyes and continuously drip onto the carpet.

"I can't do it. I can't hold this in any longer."

Tears streaming down his face, he ran over to England and wrapped his arms around him, resting his head on the other man's shoulder and breathing in his sweet lavender scent. It took the Englishman a second to process what just happened, and a couple more to gather his thoughts. He was about to shove America off him and call him a "bloody git" and so forth before he suddenly heard him cry:

"I'm sorry! I'm sorry for everything! All the horrible, evil things I've said and done to you, I'm sorry! For being so ungrateful, for constantly complaining even though I know you tried your best, for abandoning you and leaving you crying and wounded on the battlefield, for destroying you both physically and mentally, for making you so miserable and for making you believe you're not good enough, I'm sorry!"

It was at this point England realised that he was sobbing. He let the salty tears freely fall down his face and he hugged America back, holding him as if he would never let him go as the other boy continued to weep.

"I wish you could see yourself the way I do! Your eyes are beautiful and always shining, and even though people think you're crazy I've always admired you! Your smile is so stunning that it could make flowers grow, your laugh is perfect and never fails to make people happy! Look, I know that you think you're nothing and you think that you are worthless, but to me you are perfect in every single way! I know I can't take back what I did to you but at least let me tell you that I'm sorry! Every time I see you in your room mentally destroying yourself I just want to hold you in my arms and tell you that everything's okay, and that you are beautiful and amazing and how much I wish I could be like you! I just want to save you from yourself before it's too late!"

America took a deep breath in between his pained sobs, gripping England tighter and trembling, before yelling,

"I just want you to be free!"

The pair's warm embrace seemed to last forever, just like the constant water droplets that kept falling to the floor as they cried. America shakily moved his head up next to his brother's ear and grew quieter, stroking his messy blond locks.

"England, you're my hero."

Whilst still shedding tears, England smiled slightly and rubbed circles on America's back to try and calm him down. His gentle touch was so soothing and graceful that the room soon became tranquil and peaceful, with only the occasional sniffle interrupting the silence. The island nation was in shock that America had just said all of that to him, saying that he was perfect and that he mattered, that he was sorry for everything and that he just wanted him to be happy. His heart had ached for so many years of longing, wishing that a real person would suddenly dissolve all his insecurities and worries with just a few words. His heart was finally at peace and it was all because of America.

"You're my hero too."

 **So there we have it guys and gals, we have reached the end of our story! This is my first Hetalia fanfiction, so I am curious to see how you all thought I did with writing the characters and all! If you enjoyed it, please do consider leaving a fav or a review as they make me smile! Constructive criticism is always appreciated but no flames please! That's all from me for now, so I'll see you next time! Bye! :3**


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